Expiation
by LoyaulteMeLie
Summary: Post-ep to 'Divergence'.
1. Chapter 1

The first chapter of this story has not been beta'd, so any mistakes are mine. The second was beta'd by BookQ36, to whom all due thanks as always!

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It wasn't working.

In hindsight, it had never been even remotely likely to work, and he'd been a fool for thinking it could be that simple.

Malcolm hung immobile over the sink in his bathroom for a moment before raising his face and staring bitterly into the mirror. The droplets ran down his face, falling back into the broken water.

Human relationships aren't like phase pistols. You can't disassemble one, identify the problem, replace the appropriate part and reassemble it in full working order.

_If only it was that easy._

It had taken him a while to admit to himself that something needed to be done.

Superficially, of course, events had smoothed over what had happened. He'd co-operated, given explanations, apologised, and been accepted back into his old place. His co-operation had been as full as it could be, given how little he really knew; his explanations had been as open and honest as they could be, because the captain deserved that of him at the very least; his apologies had been sincere, because they came from the heart that had been wrung to its core by the necessity to betray the man to whom he owed so much. And in return – the readmission he so badly wanted.

Or at least, that was the theory. In practice, things weren't nearly that simple.

They were simple from his side. He knew that he'd been sincere; he knew that having made this one terrible mistake, he'd never make another. The second rendering of allegiance to Jonathan Archer had been absolute and for as long as he served aboard _Enterprise_. If Harris approached him again, ever, for any reason, every word of the conversation would be recorded and replayed immediately to the captain, for his judgement alone.

It wasn't that he believed that Archer had been deliberately dishonest in granting him absolution. On the contrary, it was one more tie of gratitude that the man he'd injured so badly would offer him forgiveness and reinstate him to a position of the greatest trust – the guardianship of the ship herself and everyone on board. The guardianship he had, for whatever reason, betrayed.

It was inevitable, of course, that it would take time for his transgressions to be forgotten. It would have gone around the ship like wildfire that the Head of Tactical had been thrown into the brig, and he knew of old that walls have ears. Doubtless there wasn't a member of the crew who didn't know every detail of his sins by now. It hurt, but did not surprise him, how conversations still muted when he entered the Mess Hall, and then started up again at a lower volume. The members of his own department had stared at him with shocked eyes when he reappeared, and he'd had to fight down the compulsion to assemble them all and explain himself in the bid to regain their confidence in him, or at least to make them understand why he'd acted in a manner so utterly foreign to his nature.

He sighed, and reached for a towel. He'd brought himself a flask of tea, which was all he needed. He should catch some supper, but he wasn't hungry. And he certainly didn't fancy wandering down to the Mess Hall in hope of finding something there that might stimulate his appetite. The effect of whatever food he might find to tempt him would be more than cancelled out by the reaction he was likely to get from anyone eating in there.

At meal times now (when he couldn't avoid the place altogether) he ate alone. He'd tried – just once, and purely out of habit – to sit with Hoshi and Travis, and the atmosphere had been so uncomfortable that he'd never made the mistake since. Travis, it was obvious, simply hadn't known what to say to him: 'Hi, Lieutenant, told any lies to the captain lately?' To give the young helmsman credit, he'd made a couple of valiant efforts at conversation, but they'd just withered and died, leaving all three of them lost in a wilderness of silence. Hoshi had sat with her eyes on her plate and said nothing at all. He knew she'd found out, with T'Pol, who had wiped the black box from the Rigelian freighter; equally, that it was her duty to report her findings to Captain Archer. He didn't know whether she thought he might blame her for either, or whether she was just too disgusted to speak to him. He suspected it was the latter, from the way she didn't even look at him after the first glance of incredulous distaste as he walked up, but it was hardly a question you could introduce into casual conversation. Needless to say, he'd made an excuse in fairly short order and left the Mess, leaving his meal unfinished; his already poor appetite was gone completely.

Walking back onto the Bridge after his reinstatement had been quite possibly one of the hardest things he'd ever done. Usually he'd stand back and allow the captain to precede him, out of politeness, but this time Archer had made him go first, to stand there and be pilloried for the stares of the officers and crew who were present on duty. The memory still made the colour rush to his face. It had taken all of his strength after that to walk to the Tactical Station and assume his customary professional demeanour; to speak out when he had to, in the usual level voice, as though nothing whatsoever had happened...

Trip was still preoccupied with the repair of the engines, and was liable to grab rushed meals at odd hours. He owed Trip an explanation – he'd promised him one, when they were both 'less busy' – but so far that magical opportunity had never presented itself. He wasn't naïve enough to think that Tucker would gloss over what he'd done, but he thought that the engineer would find it easier to understand why he'd done it. At least there he thought he could count – if not with wholehearted confidence – on some measure of acceptance, even perhaps a degree of forgiveness.

He sat down on his bunk, unscrewed the top of the flask, and poured himself a cup of tea. It wasn't as good as what you got at home in England, but he'd got used to it. Just the way he'd got used to being accepted, to belonging. And it was being borne in upon him forcefully that although the sense of distrust that his crewmates couldn't conceal hurt him, that wasn't the real problem. The real problem was one he should have foreseen.

He took a sip of the tea, and stared into the grey blankness of the wall opposite him, miserably contemplating where that real problem actually lay.

The captain. Or rather, not the captain. To be precise – Jonathan Archer. The man behind the captain's rank pips.

The Captain could take the logical view, the long view. Could weigh the evidence, and come to the conclusions that Archer evidently had done – that although his tactical officer's behaviour had appeared heinous, and his judgement been found flawed, his motives had been pure and the pressure exerted on him almost unbearable. The years of faithful service could not be simply dismissed, and the ship needed a weapons expert of his calibre; skill and experience in his fields were not something that were found on every street corner, and without being unduly conceited Malcolm knew his value in that respect. So the captain would have reasoned, and in acting on that reasoning he'd done no more than safeguard the welfare of the ship.

If he were Vulcan, he'd have got away with it.

Unfortunately, if there was a diametric opposite of 'Vulcan', it was 'Jonathan Archer'. It wasn't that he was 'illogical' – though on more than one occasion he could hardly have escaped prosecution in a court of law if the lack of logic had been a crime; it was far more that he experienced his captaincy at a deeply visceral level, as well as an intellectual one. The Captain could regard the incident with an erring Tactical Officer as closed. Jonathan Archer, however, was having far greater difficulty in coming to terms with the fact that Malcolm Reed, whom he'd regarded and treated as a friend, had betrayed him.

The tea was finished. Malcolm sat staring into the bottom of his empty cup as though hoping to find the solution in it.

It hadn't _been _like that. It hadn't been personal at all, except in the desperation to believe he could save Phlox by following the instructions Harris gave him. By comparison, the thought of the thousands of Klingons his actions would supposedly save had been quite unimportant. His chief concern had been the safety of the doctor who had saved his life, and those of other members of the crew, on numerous occasions. Quite simply, if Harris had told him that Phlox's survival had depended on hurling himself out of the nearest airlock, he'd have done it without a second thought. That, after all, was a Tactical Officer's job: to defend the ship's crew, if necessary with his life.

The exit from the airlock, however, would have been quick, however painful. The loss of his captain's regard was proving a slower and more lingering torment by far. It might not be terminal – at least not on a physical level – but it was being borne in upon him that it was making his continued career on board _Enterprise _look less and less likely. And, given the efficiency of the Starfleet grapevine, he could be quite sure that the story would follow him if he tried in desperation to transfer elsewhere. His qualifications and experience might get him a post, but as for earning back the trust he'd forfeited – that would be far more difficult. A man who'd betrayed one captain might as easily betray another. Even if accepted, he would always remain suspect.

He had only so much appetite for being a pariah.

_If the worst came to the worst, I could always go back to the Section_. The thought twisted in him, and he shook his head, his mouth contorting as unwanted tears pricked at his eyes. He didn't want to go back. Not at any price. He wanted, with a ferocity that shocked him, to have his life aboard _Enterprise _back.

Surveying the situation as dispassionately as he could, he thought that time would go at least some way towards mending fences with the rest of the crew. Trip would almost certainly stick by him, and that would make life bearable; as long as he could feel he had one friend on board, he could endure the loss of the rest if he must. But the situation with the captain needed to be resolved. And as he sat there, staring through the bottom of the teacup in despair into a future that he wanted so much to be more like the past, a glimmer of an idea came to him of what he could do to achieve it.

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**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


	2. Chapter 2

"I think that's enough for today."

Self defence training was mandatory for the officers aboard a starship, though all ranks were encouraged to attend lessons. It was Malcolm's role to supervise, though he often took part in the sparring himself, and had done so this evening – taking on T'Pol, who was probably the only member of the crew whose skills were at least the equal of his own. At least in the pure physical exertion of a self-defence bout he could forget his other troubles, and the atmosphere in the gym during the past half-hour or so had been almost cheerful.

It was almost a disappointment to have to bring the session to an end. _Back to Coventry_, he thought.

"Your grasp of the _Ke-tarya _is improving," the Vulcan remarked, passing him his towel. "It's gratifying to see my tuition is bearing fruit."

Reed smiled at that. At least T'Pol wasn't treating him any differently. This was as close as the Vulcan came to teasing.

"It's a tribute to the skill of the teacher," he replied.

"Not necessarily." She raised one eyebrow. "It also presupposes some degree of receptiveness in the pupil."

His smile broadened. "I'll take that as high praise."

"It's more than the rest of us ever get." Trip was walking past, and flicked him with the end of his towel.

"It's more than some of the rest of you deserve." He'd have retaliated in kind, but the chief engineer had skipped out of range with more agility than dignity, knowing what was coming.

_Now for it. _He swallowed, and raised his voice. "Captain."

Archer had been sparring with Travis, but though the training period was over he'd squatted down to discuss some part of the bout with the young ensign, who was still sitting on the training mat where his CO had unceremoniously dumped him. Now he looked up in surprise, hearing his tactical officer call him. "Lieutenant?"

_A month ago it'd have been 'Malcolm'. _The realisation twisted in him painfully. "Sir. After watching you today, I think you require some additional practice."

Silence had fallen in the gymnasium. Archer straightened up, his face unreadable.

"You're the Tactical Officer, Lieutenant. Fix us a date, and I'll be there."

He held the cold hazel gaze somehow. "If you're feeling up to it, sir, I think the present would be as good a time as any."

There was a long, long pause. Then, at last, "I guess I can handle it." A glance flickered around the rest of his officers. "You don't have to hang around."

The silence endured as the rest filed out. Trip was the last to leave, and as he stepped into the corridor he threw an eloquent glance backward at the immobile tactical officer. _Watch your step here, buddy._

The door hissed shut. The silence grew even thicker, if that were possible.

"Well, Lieutenant, I'm all yours." Archer's tone was a very, very thin shade off sarcasm. "Is there anything in particular you feel I need coaching on?"

"I think a practice bout might be the best way to illustrate what you need, sir."

He deliberately hadn't engaged in a bout with the captain since the incident. He hoped it hadn't been obvious, but in hindsight it had probably been glaringly so. The problem was, Archer wasn't the best of the officers – he was game, but it just wasn't a thing he was particularly keen on doing. His technique was decent, but he had real problems summoning up the necessary aggression against any member of his crew. Some days even Hoshi slapped him around a bit. Time had been when losing to his tactical officer had been just something that he expected to happen, and they'd both enjoyed him trying to put in at least a couple of hits before the inevitable end. Now, however, it wouldn't be something either of them would enjoy. There would be too many shades of meaning, too much bitterness and resentment festering under the surface.

Well, in his experience there was only one effective treatment when a situation was festering.

Lancing it.

Something crossed the captain's face, so quickly he might have imagined it. But Archer merely nodded, and closed the space between them with steps so controlled it was impossible to say whether he was eager, reluctant or merely compliant.

The last time they'd been this close had been in the Brig. The memories hung between them, tangible as the smoke from a trust that had gone up in flames.

_I never would have believed that you, of all people._

_The Malcolm Reed I know would give his life before committing treason._

_You've betrayed everything that uniform stands for._

_I thought I knew you, Malcolm._

The two of them had hardly dropped into a fighting crouch before Malcolm opened the attack, launching an axe kick at an angle he knew the captain found hard to deal with. Sure enough, his heel scored down Archer's chest, hard enough to leave a bruise. And as he spun away, neatly avoiding the retaliatory strike, he grinned. Openly.

It was the opening passage of what could as well have been a master-class in a bewildering variety of martial arts, expressly designed to make his opponent look utterly incompetent. He didn't hit the captain hard again, he made sure of that; he also made sure that the punch-pulling was obvious. He could hardly have put more effort into it if he'd been trying to down T'Pol at her best. Archer was not only beaten, he was utterly and totally humiliated – an experience that would act like a rush of oxygen on the smouldering anger inside him.

Malcolm saw it ignite. Fanned it with a bit more fancy footwork that left his opponent floundering, and didn't do enough to hide a faint, mocking quirk of the lips. Dabbed a couple more strikes on the ribs, and one on the bum for good measure. Evaded the increasingly wild and angry attacks the captain launched at him, and went on making it plain just who was the boss around here.

The murderous flare in the hazel eyes gave him a split second's warning, but that was all he'd ever needed.

The strike came straight for his face, hard and fast, Archer's fist like a hammer with every ounce of his injury and rage behind it. It was good, but Malcolm knew the block that would counter it, and the move to follow that would send his attacker flying face-downwards, completing his abject defeat.

He used neither the block nor the counter-move. He just dropped his hands, and took the punch.

The captain had neither the time nor the expertise to stop or even soften the blow. It connected with all the force he'd put into it, and Reed was spun around and thrown across the floor like a rag doll.

It felt as though a shuttlepod had flown through the wall and hit him. As he lay still, trying to pull back together the aching shreds of his consciousness, he wondered if his jaw was dislocated or even broken. It would be more of a surprise if it wasn't either. He moved it gingerly, waiting for the grinding sensation.

"Malcolm! – Goddamn it, _Malcolm!" _Archer was on his knees beside him, touching him with fear and aching remorse. The care in his voice was music to his tactical officer's ears. "Stay still, I'll get Phlox –"

"I think – that may not be necessary, sir."

"Damn it, I could have broken your jaw!"

He flexed it a bit less cautiously. There was blood on his mouth, but that was because the force of the blow had driven his teeth into his lip.

"I don't think you have, sir. Though I have to say I'm a bit surprised myself." He put his head down on the floor again, hoping that doing so might help to reduce the sensation of having been kicked in the face by a horse. It didn't improve it significantly, but there didn't seem to be any particular reason to get up right now. He shut his eyes, not thinking about anything.

Archer sat down beside him. For a couple of minutes there was silence.

"You did that on purpose, didn't you?" the captain said at last.

Malcolm opened one eye and surveyed him rather warily. Archer's expression wasn't particularly informative; nor was his voice, which was full of subtle sub-tones that Hoshi would have had more luck translating.

"You engineered the whole damn thing. You wanted me to hit you," the captain went on, still in that almost reflective way.

There was another pause.

"I think you needed to, sir. I think – it was the only way to put things right. Or at least make a start towards it." He peered up earnestly, and a little anxiously, at his commanding officer. "And perhaps I needed it too. It felt like – justice, somehow."

The older man gazed down thoughtfully at his fist, which bore the mark of the blow across its knuckles. Maybe he too felt that forgiveness had been too cheaply offered and too carelessly accepted; that there had been a debt unpaid. Certainly the quality of the silence between them had changed.

It wasn't absolution, but then he hadn't expected that. Perhaps it was the beginning of restoration. And now, for the first time, he dared to believe that it was possible.

Captain Archer got back to his feet, and then squatted to help his tactical officer get to his.

"Take it easy. And I'm taking you to Sickbay, just to get Phlox to give you the once-over."

_Crap. Not Sickbay again. _"It's not necessary, sir. Honestly." He rotated his jaw to prove the point, even at some cost to himself.

A grin of sorts appeared on the lean face opposite him. "Malcolm. I nearly knocked your damned head off, even if you did let me. I need my Tactical Officer in one piece, and my CMO is the only one I'll trust to make that judgment."

_And nobody will ever know from me that I let you do it. _He'd forgotten his bitten lip, but remembered it when his faint, crooked smile in answer twinged it.

They were standing directly opposite each other again, but this time it was different. It wasn't like it had been before, but it would have been unrealistic to expect that; miracles were for Bible stories, not starships. Nevertheless a healing process of sorts had begun. Archer's hands on his shoulders, holding him steady, felt natural rather than forced. And he, in his turn, was able to accept the grip rather than endure it.

The captain let him go, and smacked him lightly on the back of the shoulder. "Let's go. I'd mention catching something to eat, but I'll guess you won't be up for that now."

"There's always soup, if I'm desperate."

He still wasn't quite steady on his feet. If truth were told, he was quite glad that his CO walked close beside him down the corridor, ready to extend a supporting arm if he needed one; glad in more than one way, because it felt right again to have him there.

He'd taken a risk. Not many starship captains would relish having their tactical officer practise their skills on _them. _But there again, Jonathan Archer wasn't your average starship captain. That was one of the things that had forged his crew into the force that had taken on the Delphic Expanse and won. That was one of the reasons why – despite the many times the two of them hadn't seen anything like eye to eye on matters of security – Malcolm wanted more than anything not to have to leave the ship. After serving aboard _Enterprise_, with its quirky, eclectic mix of characters and its unique sense of fellowship, he wouldn't want to serve anywhere else.

_Must be getting sentimental in my old age,_ he thought, as the double doors of Sickbay hissed open and Phlox's initial welcoming smile faded into a look of resignation the mirror of his own.

"Well, Mister Reed, what is it this time?"

There was still a chance for a small, unworthy revenge. He pointed accusingly at the captain.

"He hit me."

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**Author's note: **Malcolm's thought 'Back to Coventry' refers to an English expression 'to send someone to Coventry', meaning to exclude and ignore them. The expression is thought to date back to the English Civil War in the 1640's, when Royalist soldiers were stationed at the staunchly Parliamentarian city of Coventry and were therefore utterly ostracised by the people among whom they had to live.

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**All comments and reviews received with gratitude!**


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